


Take a Tumble

by merelypassingtime



Series: The Well of Lost Plots [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: A collection of the little ficlets I have posted on Tumblr.Mostly Johnlock, with a bit of Mystrade and MorMor.(Major Character Death/Referenced Suicide is in the MorMor one, Chapter Five. The rest are safely fluffy.)





	1. Flowery

**Author's Note:**

> I was backing up all my writing files and found some of these.  
> I know most of you follow me on Tumblr too, so these will be old news. Sorry.  
> Not betaed, not brit-picked.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock buys John a flower, but John is too focused on his date to notice. Angst with a happy ending, heavy pining

Sherlock bought the flower on a whim, without anymore thought in his head than it might make John smile. Sherlock knew that he lived for being on the receiving end of one of John’s smiles.

Unfortunately, when he reach Baker street John was already smiling and clearly on his way out to a promising date. Sherlock dropped the hand holding the flower to his side, hoping his coat would hide the sad offering as he hoped his mask of indifference would hide his heartbreak.

Sherlock even managed a nod when John breezed by him with a hurried, “Don’t wait up!” Then John was out the door and Sherlock was alone again, the flower he clutch no ease to the ache in his chest. He stared disconsolately at the bloom, so lost in his unhappy thought he didn’t hear the door downstairs open again.

“Hang on a second, I forgot my coat.” John called out the door as he pounded back up the seventeen stairs to the flat.

“Hey Sherlock, have you seen- oh. Nice flower.” he said, sounding puzzled. “Do you have a date too? Taking the work out for some romance?”

John sounded so happy and carefree that Sherlock felt his heart shatter a bit more. He dropped his head, staring at the ground in an effort to hide his face. He tried to keep his voice even as he answered, “ No, nothing like that. I just...” but for the life of him he could not come up with a plausible end to his sentence.

Suddenly John was right there in front of him, looking into his downcast face. “Sherlock, what is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied desperately. “Nothing at all, just got it for an experiment. That is all.” then he made the mistake of meeting John's beautiful deep blue eyes and he knew that the heartbreak and desolation were written on his face too large for even the most unobservant to miss. Quickly he looked back down at the ground, focusing on John's date night shoes.

He heard John's slight intake of breath as the truth, so long hidden, came out in a rush. All because of Sherlock allowing himself a moment of hope and whimsy in buying the flower.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Why? Why haven't you ever said anything?”

“It doesn't matter, forget it.” Sherlock answered. “It doesn't change anything. I don't want it to change anything between us. Okay?” Sherlock steeled himself and forced a parody of a smile onto his face before he looked back up. He held out the flower to John again, “Here, give it to your date, alright?”

John still seemed to be in shock so Sherlock pressed the flower into unresisting fingers and turned to walk towards his bedroom.

He only got a few steps before he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard John speak his name, “Sherlock, wait.” and John used the pressure on his shoulder to turn him around to face him. “Here,” he said, handing the flower back to Sherlock. “For my date.” and he smiled, a wonderful smile that was joy and hope and tenderness. “That is, if you are amenable.”

Sherlock could only gap at him, his mind blank in the face of what John seemed to be asking. John reached out a hand and rested it gently on his cheek, asking, “Well? Are you amenable?”

Still Sherlock could find no words to answer. Instead he leaned down slowly, giving John every opportunity to pull away. He didn't pull away, he beamed at Sherlock before lifting up on his toes to meet him halfway.

When their lips met Sherlock was sure he felt the world ending and being remade in that one instant and he knew that nothing could ever be more amazing than this kiss unless it was the man caught up in it with him.


	2. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a nightmare, Sherlock is comforting. Retirementlock.

John sat bolt upright in the bed, one hand clutched to his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Beside him Sherlock looked up calmly from checking his phone, “Bad one tonight?”

They both had many years of experience with John's nightmares and usually John appreciated how Sherlock treated them as nothing special. Tonight though he needed closeness more than he need that sense of normality. He all but threw himself at Sherlock, knocking the phone from his hand as he buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Hot tears spilled from his eyes as he wrapped his arms around the startled man, clinging and shaking.

“Hey,” Sherlock said gently, bringing his hands up to run in soothing circles against John's back. “It is okay, everything is fine. It was just a dream.”

John just squeezed him tighter, but his breath was starting to even out. Sherlock placed a kiss to the top of his head before whispering, “Was it about the fall again?”

“No, nothing like that. It was, well, it is hard to express. In the dream it was just after Mary's death but instead of admitting that I loved you I continued dating other people and ignoring you.”

“Well, that doesn't sound that bad. I mean we would have still been together as friends.”

“But it was horrible! I had to watch you be heartbroken and deep down I knew that I was going to miss all this.” John waved around at the cozy room. “How could I ever be happy being just your friend? How could I give up even a moment of the life we've had together. We already wasted so much time.”

Sherlock shrugged, he couldn't argue the point. The idea of a lifetime without John's love was hard to bear. “But it was just a dream. This is the reality, you and me together for almost twenty years, here in our bed, here in our little cottage, with the bees, the tea, and the door from the kitchen into the garden that you still haven't fixed even though you promised you would six months ago.”

John chuckled, and if it was still wet with tears Sherlock pretended not to notice. “Okay, you are right like always. It was just a dream. But still, would you mind holding me a bit longer?”

“No, I never mind doing that.” Sherlock said with a smile and another kiss to the top of John's head.

And he did hold his doctor, quietly humming Brahms to him long after the shaken man had fallen back to sleep.


	3. Toasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives the toast at his second wedding. Just short and stupidly fluffy

Five years later a particularly close call on a case makes it pointless to deny their feeling anymore Sherlock and John get married. After the quiet civil ceremony the pair meet their handful of friends and family back at 221b for cake and drinks. When Lestrade calls out laughingly for a toast, Sherlock just smiles back and says, “No, I think I have done enough of that, thank you very much.”

“But I haven't!” John declares, standing up from his chair and turning to face his new husband. Looking into those familiar grey eyes he starts, “Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, love of my life, you once told me that you were a ridiculous man redeemed only my my friendship. Well, I am here to tell you that you were wrong. Even at your darkest you are the most brilliant and wonderful of men. Before I met you I was lost and alone, but now with you shining so brightly at the center of my life I know I will never have to be lost again for the rest of my life.” John looked away, breaking the intense eye contact and blinking several times. The feeling of tears running down his face didn't surprise him.

Sherlock takes a step towards him, raising a hand to wipe away the tears with the back of his hand. “No,” he answers. “You'll never be alone again, John.”

A loud throat clearing and almost audible eye roll from Mycroft broke the moment, causing John to grin at him. He raises the graduated cylinder filled with champagne he is holding and gently clinks it again the matching one in Sherlock's hand. “I know, love. And neither will you.”


	4. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You knew I was going to have some silly poems, didn't you?  
> There was a post going around for a while promising love letters from fictional character if you reblogged it. These are the ones I wrote.

Even a good old fashioned villain needs a love story;  
And now that I have you I find pets mandatory.  
Just as surely as I helped Carl Powers drown;  
Honey, I would love to see you in a crown.  
Hugs and Kisses, Jim Moriarty

While I know to care is no advantage;  
My affection for you is hard to manage.  
You are better than a Korean election;  
And you, like cake, have all of my affection.  
Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes

I was so alone when you were but a stranger;  
But now I love you more than I love danger.  
I had to tour three continents before I found you;  
And I love you regardless of any trust issue.  
Love, John Watson

In a world so full of the terminal stupid;  
The Universe wasn't too lazy to play cupid.  
And while sentiment might be the grit on my lens;  
I find I am glad that we are more than just friends.  
Yours, Sherlock Holmes

I may not be your typical landlady  
With my past of dancing and bookkeeping quite shady  
But I certainly can see our true love startin'  
Even if I won't let you drive my Aston Martin.  
Love, Mrs Hudson

Just as Sherlock Holmes is a man so great  
The fandom without you is hard to contemplate  
Your writing is a joy, your lists full of precision  
That is why you'll always be my division.  
Love, Greg Lestrade

Your presence cuts though my post case gloom  
Better than a murder found in a locked room  
And while the chemistry of love maybe simple and destructive  
But who could ever resist when you are so seductive?  
-SH


	5. Game Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after The Fall, Jim tries to pick up where he left off, but hits a snag when trying to restaff. Angst, referenced suicide, major character death

Jim stood at the window, looking out at the London skyline. It was a lovely day, warm for January. It felt wrong.

For two years he had dogged the steps of Sherlock Holmes as the man took apart his network, not trying to stop him really, just annoying him and making things more difficult. But now that was over, Sherlock had overplayed his hand with Magnussen, allowing Jim to maneuver him into taking a suicide mission in eastern Europe. He had succeed in finally making the man burn his own heart out and choose his own death, just as he had tried to do on that roof years ago. That game was truly over.

Now, he was ready to rebuild his empire from the ground up, confident that this time there would be no one to oppose him. So he had looked up his faithful right-hand man, eager to surprise the life out of him a bit and coerce him back into his employ and into his bed.

Jim sighed and turned away from the too beautiful view and back to his computer terminal. Sitting down, he clicked closed the terse article about a soldier’s suicide two years ago he had found buried deep under articles from that day about the much more sensational suicide of a fake detective. There had been no new of his own faked death on that rooftop, and Jim knew that the knowledge of it had died in a cheap motel room with Moran.

He opened a new tab. On a message board deep in the dark web he typed:

_Wanted: Assassin, cold-blooded killer, and general all around thug. Military background preferred. Must love cats._

He knew that like the bright day outside, it would not feel quite right ever again.


	6. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade, kidcroft, sweet enough to rot teeth

Mycroft was always picked last for sports. All the intelligence in the world couldn’t make his ungainly body graceful nor could any amount of wit replace coordination on the rugby field. He tried not to let it bother him, and mostly he succeeded. That is until Greg transferred into his school.

Greg was handsome and charming and gained popularity quickly. Coupled with his natural athleticism Mycroft wasn’t surprised when he was picked out as a team captain in only his second week at the school.

He was surprised when after the other captain had chosen his first player Greg called his name. Judging by the shocked silence of the boys around him, he wasn’t the only one surprised. Greg actually had to call his name a second time before Mycroft moved forward to stand by his side.  
What he didn’t know at the time, what he only realized years later, was that that was just the beginning of a lifetime where Greg would always choose him first.


	7. Snowball Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, parentlock, graphic depictions of split coffee

Sherlock sat on the cold stone bench, the mug of cafe au lait in his hands still steaming, The steam carried the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg to his noise, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight before him long enough to take a sip or even to blink.

John, rosy-cheeked and grinning like a fool was engaged in an epic snow battle with an equal pink and happy Rosie. So far, and not to Sherlock's surprise, the precocious five-year-old was clearly winning if only because her father couldn't stop laughing long enough to mount a decent counter-offensive.

He had to work to keep his face still and impassive, even as a warmth that had nothing to do with the huge cup of coffee he held, threatened to swallow his heart whole. When he did tear his eyes away from the two people whom he loved most in the world, he told himself that the tears in his eyes were because of the stinging cold and nothing else.

He turned to survey the picturesque landscape while he reined in his emotions and thought to himself, 'Sussex really is lovely country. Maybe one day when the work starts getting dull...'

Just then two snowballs hit him with deadly accuracy, sending his drink flying one direction even as he tumbled backwards off the bench. All thoughts of the future retreated as he was buried in white snow and surrounded by the sound of snickering Watsons...


	8. Friday Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon about post-season four Baker Street. Parentlock, domestic fluff

Friday nights are family night at 221B and have been since shortly are John returned, bringing Rosie with him.

At three o’clock an alarm goes off in Sherlock’s mind palace and he stops whatever he is doing. He will walk away in the middle of conversations at crime scene, his long coat twirling dramatically behind him as he strides away, or power down whoever’s laptop he is using, or start clearing away an experiment, finished or not, so he can make sure to be right at four o’clock to pick Watson up from nursery school.

John always leaves the surgery early so he can swing by the Tesco to get anything they need for dinner. Friday nights are not nights for a quick takeaway meal, but for the joy of working together and filling the flat with the aroma of cooking food and the sounds of laughter.

Usually it is nothing fancy, pasta and sauce or mild curry or the thing with peas, but still Sherlock and John move around the kitchen and each other with the ease of a choreographed dance. When Rosie gets a bit older she will start helping too and the recipes will get a bit more complicated and adventurous, but for now she sits at the table coloring or reading.

After the meal is over and days and stories have been shared around, the dishes are cleared and the little family moves into the sitting room to watch a movie or play a game. Sherlock has banned all Bond movies and John has put his foot down on playing Cluedeo, but no one is too bothered. Sherlock likes building Legos best, John has a not very secret fondness for Candy Land, and Rosie loves to play trivia games, using her greater grasp of general knowledge questions to show up her brilliant daddy while her other dad tries to hide his giggles.

When a tried Rosie can’t conceal her yawns any longer John and Sherlock carry her upstairs and tuck her into bed. John lays beside her on the bed while Sherlock reads outloud. It always has to be Sherlock reading because Rosie insists he does the voices right and John can’t argue with her there.

It rarely takes long for Rosie to drift off to a sound slumber, and when she does John and Sherlock take turns kissing her forehead before retreating to the hall. Often the pair will stand for a moment in the doorway, looking back at the sleeping girl. John will snake an arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock will rest his cheek against John’s soft, fine hair.

All the difficulties and obstacles and the hurts and heartbreak that lay behind them only serve to make those moments of happiness and peace more poignant. Although they won’t admit it, neither man can regret anything that has passed because all of it worked to bring them here to the perfection of a Friday night with their family.


	9. Picture This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, parentlock, domestic fluff

Sherlock loved taking pictures of Rosie and John. He took hundreds of them in the first month they moved back into 221B alone and proudly displayed many of them around the flat. It isn’t long until every wall was covered with John and Rosie's smiling faces.

It bothered John. Not a lot, not nearly enough for him to ask Sherlock to stop, but it was a little irritant at the back of his brain for months.

Then, one evening as he was walking past a new collage of Rosie's first trip to the zoo, it hit him why the pictures were a bit not right, and it was so obvious in retrospect.

Luckily, it was also a problem easily solved. A quick call to Mycroft and all his watching cameras and some technical help from Greg and, surprisingly enough, Sally, and the next week Sherlock came home to find a large digital picture frame hanging next to the picture of the skull over the couch.

Sherlock stared at it for a long time, watching the screen transition though picture after picture of Rosie, John, and himself and marveling at how happy and right they look together.

Finally, John came to stand beside him. He let several images cycle by before breaking the silence. “I couldn't quite place why all the pictures you took felt wrong until I realized that you weren't in them with us. And for Rosie and me no picture is ever going to be complete without you in it ever again. So I fixed it. Sorry it took me so long, but I am an idiot after all.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out to rest an arm around John's shoulders, and, never taking his eyes off the frame in front of him, he said softly, “That is fine. You're my idiot.”


	10. Johnlocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, really bad pun, crack, dialog only

Um, Sherlock?

Shh! John, you’ll alert the killers to our presence!

I doubt it, I’m pretty sure they are long gone.

You can’t know that for sure, and you know it is a capital mistake to theorize before-

-one has all the data. Yeah, yeah. So you say. Often. But it’s been more than an hour since you claimed to hear them returning and pushed me into this loo, and in that time I haven’t heard a thing from out there. Now, it’s passed three in the morning, my feet hurt, and I want to be in bed like a halfway reasonable person.

Fine, but if the killers are out there I plan to be smug.

Well, seeing as how that’s your base state, I think I’ll manage. Just open the bloody door already.

Yeah… About that.

What?

Well, it would seem that when we dashed in there the door managed to become locked behind us.

…

You needn’t look at me like that. How was I supposed to know the door would lock itself.

…

I mean, what sort of door locks you into a room? That if nothing else proves that we are in the house of a killer.

…

John, while I usually appreciate your grand gift of silence, it is less than helpful right now.

… So, You are saying we are trapped in this bathroom?

That is what I’ve been explaining in great detail. Yes.

For how long?

No idea. But, given that you’ve forgotten your phone-

-because you woke me in the middle of the fucking night shouting about murders and a cab you had waiting to go and stop them.

And I have run down the battery on mine.

Playing Words With Friends against Mycroft again?

It isn’t important. What is important is that this door looks lamentably solid. I am afraid we are stuck until someone lets us out.

Great, that is just bloody fantastic. You’ve gone and got us johnlocked.

Got us what?

Johnlocked. We are locked in a john, aren’t we?

Yes, we are, but I don’t know why you’d call it being ‘johnlocked.’

You don’t get to question my literary choices right now, Sherlock! In fact I think you owe me a pretty spectucular blow job right about now.

Oh, really? Is that so?

Yeah that is so.

And what about the criminals we are here to catch?

They are just gonna have to wait.

You are a hard man, John.

Yeah, come over here and I’ll show you how hard I am.

Gladly.

———–

Boss? Do you hear something?

Careful, you oaf! You almost dropped the body. You need to focus.

But I could’ve sworn I heard something coming from that bathroom.

Fuck! Do you think it is the cops?

No… it sounds like moaning.

Huh, maybe the place is haunted or something… We’d better get out of there quick.


	11. Worked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established Mystrade domestic fluff. A belated 300 followers ficlet gift. The ask was for anything sweet and Mystrade, hope this fits the bill.

Greg was no stranger to long nights and mountains of paperwork, but over the last month Mycroft had been absolutely inundated by it. 

It wasn’t that he begrudged Anthea her maternity leave, he was genuinely happy for her, and watching Mycroft sputter and protest when she’d asked him to be the baby’s godfather had been adorable. Still, he had been dubious when My had insisted that he wouldn’t need to find a temporary assistant to replace her.

Now, returning from a night out at the pub to find Mycroft still in his office staring with dead eyes at his computer screen, Greg decided he’d had enough. Mycroft didn’t even look up as he marched into the office, his steps slightly unsteady. Maybe the last round of shots hadn’t be as wise as it had seemed at the time. He made it to the desk without incident and without his hard working husband noticing him. Mycroft sounded genuinely surprised when Greg put a hand on the back of the Mycroft’s office chair, turning it away from the desk.

“Gregory! When did you get home?” Glancing back at his computer, he added, “God, is it really that late?”

Greg ignored the questions, offering Mycroft a hand, which he took  
without thought. As Greg pulled him out of the chair, Mycroft protested half-heartedly, “But I still have all this paperwork…”

“It’s not going anywhere, but you are. You’re coming to bed with me, whether or not you like it.” With that Greg bent to grab ahold of My’s thighs before he hosted him up and over his shoulder.

“Gregory!” Mycroft squirmed and squeaked from halfway down Greg’s back. “Put me down this instant!”

Greg reached one hand up to firmly slap one delectable arse cheek. “No. Now, you be quiet and stop your wiggling before you make me drop you.”

Mycroft did stop flailing, but he continued to protest as Greg carried him out of the office and across the hall to the bedroom.

“If you keep up the complaining, I’m going to assume that you really do want to go right to sleep and skip all the fun I have planned between now and then.”

Mycroft went quiet as Greg pushed the bedroom door shut behind them.

Greg decided he would text Anthea in the morning to ask her to find a replacement assistant, with or without Mycroft’s approval.


	12. With His Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade, poetry. My attempt at a rondeau.

With his umbrella in his hand, clutched tight  
Mycroft silently kept Sherlock in sight,  
Watching the boy play, careless of the rain.  
Spite struck his heart like a physical pain,  
Knowing he’d never again feel so light.

Life taught him young intellect was a blight  
So, he shroulded his heart in hard calcite,  
And from emotions he worked to abstain.  
Alone with his umbrella, heart sealed tight.

Then he met Greg, noble as any knight.  
With his help Mycroft’s heart won the fight,  
Lifting from his shoulders much woe and strain  
So Mycroft could play once more in the rain,  
His heart free of care and full of delight  
Without an umbrella anywhere in sight.


	13. Letters to a Young Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt on Tumblr from writing-prompt-s:  
> On everyone’s 18th birthday they receive a letter from their future selves. Some receive long messages about their future lovers or messages about changes they would have made. Yours contains nothing but a small list of locations and the words, “NEVER VISIT”.  
> Johnlock, retirementlock

One day you are going to meet an ex-soldier with a psychosomatic limp. Whatever you do, DO NOT START A RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM.  
Tell him you are married to your work, push him away with deductions, jump off a bloody roof, just don’t fall in love.  
Trust me!!!!  
-SH

John looked down at the short note, then back up at Sherlock, one eyebrow raised. “Really? That is what you are going to tell your younger self? Not about Moriarty or the drugs but not to love me?”

“I know me. I’m not going to listen anyhow.” Sherlock sniffed “Besides, it is still better than yours.”

“What’s wrong with mine?!”

“‘There’s nothing wrong with liking men too, whatever our father says. Remember: He’s not really dead. You’ll just need to wait for your miracle. And when you meet Mary, run!’? Really, John? Have you decided to become a mystic in your old age. Threatening yourself with vague auguries of doom.”

“What I can I? I learned how to be unhelpfully cryptic from the best,” John answered, stretching up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

“Whatever,” Sherlock huffed, trying to sound haughty, but too content to pull it off. “Well, if we are all done here, hive eleven needs to be repaired. I think a hedgehog got past the entrance reducer somehow and made a nest. I could use your help.”

“Oh, of course, love. I’ll be right out, just give me a moment to wrap up.”

Sherlock swept out the door, the cane he now used doing nothing to lessen his grandeur. John looked after him fondly before gathering up the two letters. Folding them neatly, he slipped them into envelopes and set them aside to be delivered later to Mycroft. Then, he followed his husband out into the lovely Sussex afternoon.


	14. Opportunity Knocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade, uni!Mycroft, kid!sherlock, Fluffy, fluffy goodness? I hope...

Mycroft was startled out of his studies by a loud knocking on the front door. Looking up from his book towards the door, he tried to puzzle out who could be knocking. 

As far as he was aware they weren’t expecting any packages and with his parents were out of town it could hardly be a visitor, as neither he or Sherlock had much in the way of friends. A sales person seemed just as unlikely as his mother had developed quite a reputation for terrorizing them and the last religious proselytiser had left in tears.

His musing were cut short by a second knock, and reluctantly Mycroft laid down his book and went to answer the door annoyed at the interruption.

He yanked open the door, an angry, “What!” dying on him lips as he saw the handsome young man standing on the doorstep. An awkward moment of silence ensued as Mycroft’s pique fled and he drank in the details of the man, his crimally beautiful brown eyes and tousled hair. He was smiling just slightly and the sight made Mycroft’s knees feel wobbly.

After too long, Mycroft pulled himself together enough to try greeting the stranger again, “Er- Hello?”

“Hi, are you Mycroft?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” a young voice answered before he could.  
Mycroft noticed for the first time that a very disheveled Sherlock was standing next to the man, his lip bleeding, and his school uniform torn and muddy.

“Sherlock! Are you all right?

“I am fine, as I keep telling people,” he said with a glare at the man. There wasn’t much heat behind it.

The man grinned down at him, then looked back at Mycroft. “I saw this little prat being pushed around by several older students.”

“They didn’t care much for my deductions. They were boring.”

“Yeah, well, they ran off when they saw me coming and I decided I’d better walk him home.”

“I didn’t need walked home! I’m not a baby.”

Ignoring Sherlock, Mycroft said “Well, I can’t thank you enough Mr…?” he trailed off, making it a question.

“Oh, it’s just Greg. Nice to meet you, Mycroft,” Greg said, offering a hand to shake.

Mycroft accepted the hand and could feel himself blushing red at even the fleeting contact. “Umm, could I offer you a cup of tea prehaps, to show my thanks?” he stammered.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock said with a roll of this eyes.

This time Greg ignored him, still holding Mycroft’s hand he answered, “Yeah, I’d like that.”


End file.
